An open letter to the class of 1996

A page from my high school yearbook the year I was crowned the Homecoming queen. It’s tough to tell in black and white, but my boyfriend wore a gold lamé suit.

When I talk about my high school experience, I usually start by saying, “I was the homecoming queen.” But those who know me now don’t get the inside joke – that I was the anti-queen at the dance, dressed in a black gown with a beaded Cleopatra style silver wig on top of my hair.

When they handed me my crown, at the homecoming football game, I was dressed like a man in a suit with a drawn-on mustache and goatee. I kept my hand closed when I waved like a hard-plastic Barbie doll that couldn’t separate her fingers from her hoof of a hand. In my memory, cheerleaders booed. I was proud of myself despite the school guidance counselor who begged me to reconsider how I walked onto that field, swearing I’d regret it years later.

I don’t talk much about the rest of high school.

An invitation to the reunion

I finally felt included, a few months before my 20-year high school reunion, when I was invited to the Facebook group. I joked about feeling old, but it felt good to have been found and remembered.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to attend the event, taking place Sept. 24, 2016, but I wasn’t yet sure if I even wanted to go. The names of the people populating the private group rang some bells, but many brought back bad memories.

Most of my memories from school after first grade are bad. I don’t say this to hurt or blame anyone now, but to share my experience.

Some former classmates have shared their photos and memories recently, so I started thinking about the things I recall. Having started public school in second grade, I had some catching up to do. I didn’t know the cohort I’d be with.

But enough about me

What do I remember about these people now celebrating 20 years post high school?

I remember feeling floored when a fellow elementary school friend joined in with others making fun of me. I don’t remember and it didn’t matter why the kids were being cruel. Kids are cruel. When I asked the former friend whom I won’t name why she said such nasty things and “I thought you were my friend,” she said without missing a beat, “I guess you thought wrong.”

“I. Guess. You. Thought. Wrong.”

Maybe it only stung so much because I was young, naïve, inexperienced and too damn sensitive. Sure, we were kids and I’ve learned to brush off the comments I heard during childhood. But the interactions I had shaped who I am and who I became through high school.

Evil, little bitch

One afternoon on the blacktop outside Littleton Elementary School, all I wanted was to get on my bike and get home. Some stupid, faceless-in-my-memory, kids called me ugly. I was fine following my mother’s advice and ignoring them. Until a popular girl called out, “Hey Ellen, I think you’re pretty.”

My life brightened for a split second as I turned, honestly thinking in a fraction of a moment that someone was sticking up for me.

“Pretty ugly,” she finished.

To say it burned is an understatement. I graduated high school twenty years ago, but this moment from when I was no older than maybe 10 still stings. I feel that pain in my stomach. Tears well up in my eyes. And I’m grown. I’m a big girl with a family of my own.

I pedaled my two-wheeler the way some people drive cars in a rage, with no concern for the people or elements in my way. Later, when I met that nasty little girl’s mother, I remember vividly saying, “Oh that’s your daughter? I’m sorry.”

And I meant it. The mom made a face like I was an evil, little bitch. Maybe I was projecting. I felt sick letting that anger and negativity have a stage.

Just too sensitive

Perhaps my elementary school soul was just too sensitive.

I know I stumbled over the line between self-loathing and lashing out when I ended up in the principal’s office after lunch one day in third grade. I fashioned the aluminum foil from my sandwich into a ball and tried to scotch tape a thumbtack to it.

I must have threatened to throw it at those teasing me. I remember this in the context of hearing Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” years later. But in the moment I felt even more ashamed of my weapon’s design. Who would I have hurt with my ball?

The principal punished me by making me sit at a desk in the hall for lunch until the end of the year. I felt relief. Finally, they’d just leave me alone.

My mom swore to me things would be different when I got to Brooklawn Middle School in sixth grade. I’d have more people to befriend from different elementary schools. Things would improve, she promised.

I battled daily with trying to balance my desperate desire to be liked with my genuine interests. I didn’t know who I was yet. I had neither hobbies to speak of nor passions to pursue. Other than reading and writing, there was little I wanted to do.

The cool kids

Praying to be invited to the cool kid get-togethers while trying to choose the best outfits, I thought making friends was like breaking a code or learning a language. I’ve blocked out a lot of the middle school interactions that sent me home in tears, begging to be put in a different school.

I went to Newark Academy from eighth through tenth grade, and then returned to graduate from the public Parsippany Hills High School, home of the Vikings.

In writing my open letter to the graduating class of 1996, I’m giving a name to my early experiences. Confronting the pain. Standing up for myself. I’m not blaming anyone because, after all, we were fucking kids.

Most of the kids I would have called friends those last two years of high school were the junkies, freaks and losers; the true high school dropouts of whom many are now dead. I’ve made my peace and forgiven much more than I’ve forgotten.

A ‘gothic hippy’

By the time I returned to my public school cohort, this “Class of ’96,” I decided who I was. I was a misanthrope, a “gothic hippy” in flowing pattern skirts and black lipstick. I was far more interested in studying people than having them know the real me.

I sunk deeper into reading books and writing poetry.

In not wanting friends and choosing instead to stay to myself, I became more or less notorious. “My music” was recorded by Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Tool and, by 1995, I discovered Marilyn Manson. I gave myself a mask of makeup, wore a cape, and carried a cane to help me with my “emotional instability.” I was only half-kidding.

My closest female friend went to a school 30 minutes away, but I had a boyfriend I loved deeply. He’s the one who wore a gold lamé suit at the homecoming dance when I was queen.

Ellen and Maire in 2016.

Meredith and I are still extremely close, despite the fact that for about a decade after graduation, I teetered on the edge of self-destruction. We reconnected via Facebook, the way God intended.

On the day of my 20-year high school reunion, I’m celebrating my career. I’m proud of my hard work and my thick skin. I’ve earned degrees in psychology and communication, focusing on journalism. My success is self-defined and I’m genuinely happy.

Though I stay open-minded to making friends, I prefer avoiding people outside my immediate family. My husband is my best friend and I credit him with saving my life.

My daughter is student of the month during the first 11 days of Kindergarten August 2016.

She earned “student of the month” 11 days into the first month of school because “She’s such sunshine,” the teacher said. My daughter’s sensitive, but she’s confident and I think she has much of what I lacked at an early age.

When I think back on my early education, I remember how quickly my wonder and natural curiosity were tainted. Kids can be so cruel. That likely won’t change and I know far many had far worse.

In forgetting my perspectives and forgiving those who misunderstood me, I’ve made friends on social media with classmates I never really knew. I’ve most certainly moved on and I don’t long for pity, apologies or explanations.

In sharing this open letter, I want only to give voice to my thoughts in the hope that those who saw a different me than I remember, choose to teach their kids to be kind. I tell my daughter she doesn’t have to like everyone, she doesn’t have to pretend, but she does need to treat everyone with respect.

I respect my hometown and the kids who got a chance to grow up. I’m thrilled to be one of them.

3 Responses to An open letter to the class of 1996

This letter is amazing. While I didn’t share the same high school experience as you, I too did not quite fit in. I couldn’t wait until high school was over. I have moved on from my experiences and learned a big lesson from my younger years. Lessons that I now teach to my own children.

I have to agree with Leilani this is an amazing letter. I’m sure you don’t remember me but I remember the first time I met you back in 5th grade at Littleton and wanted to share with you my memory if it matters. I just moved to NJ and started at Littleton in the 5th grade. Being the outsider I didn’t know who were the “cool” kids, who were the “dorky” kids or who were the ones getting picked on. I was just trying to make friends or figure out my place at this new school. Well one day early in the school year you left your jean jacket on my desk. Not knowing who it belonged to I wanted to do the nice thing and return it to you. The moment I picked it up all the kids in the classroom gasped and told me to put it down as if I touched something gross or disgusting. I recall some of the kids saying mean things about who it belonged to which honestly I don’t recall exactly or care to remember. Being utterly confused I walked to a teacher aide out in the hallway b/c I wanted to give it back to its rightful owner. A few minutes later you came over to get your jacket and I could tell you were upset when I handed it to you. I vividly remember confusion because to me you looked perfectly normal – not disgusting nor ugly or a monster just like any girl in our grade. Honestly not knowing anything I was frankly scared why they would find fault in you. I was thinking to myself why kids in this school are so mean to each other. For whatever reason this was one of my lasting memories of Littleton.

Anyway, as the school year went on I ended up making friends and I know we never really talked or hung out in the same circles. I myself was teased horribly by this one girl who sat next to me. She would make fun of me b/c I was Chinese and say some of the meanest thing to me about my ethnicity (I remember this well). I had to sit on my fists so I wouldn’t punch her. The more angry I got it seemed to egg her on. I won’t name her name since it was so long ago (she probably doesn’t remember or give a crap how she was to me). I wasn’t an angel myself and did join in on some of teasing / bullying that went on in our grade with other kids and I truly regret that. I don’t recall ever saying anything mean to you but if I did I do apologize even though you are not looking for an apology. The level of crap I experience all through school doesn’t add up to the crap you went through but so you know you weren’t alone.

Thank you for writing this letter and putting out your thoughts. I myself decided not to attend the reunion for various reasons some of them probably similar to yours some different (I have gone on enough). I apologize for the long response but I’m happy to see you have done much. You have a beautiful daughter and I can tell a great writer who Mrs. Job would be proud of.

Hi Louis! I remember your name. Thank you for sharing this memory. I really think I’ve chosen to forget much of my elementary experience and if nothing else it helped me developed a thicker skin. I’m a reporter now so a tough shell comes in handy! Keep that good heart of yours!